I read a disconcerting article concerning love.
The Doc wrote that "it's need for longing and not some gift from ancient gods."
I clipped and folded neatly, the pape it never left my pocks.
I took it to the mathematicians, who plotted love within a box.
The X, the Z, the Y, do seasons never change for me?
My ails in contrast small.
The folding leaves, the lines that lie beneath our window now,
They signal something new.
I'm only longing to long no more,
I'm tired of giving them all my money.
For new shoes, gas, and shit galore,
The endpoint, dear, is you.
It's time to liberate all your norms,
And send them packing to Escondido.
This undisputed and swift reform,
Is made to topple you.
I wrote anachronistic things like me, in present day,
I spent a week or hours plodding through the different ways.
Self-serving, sure it's feeble, there never was an "i" in friends,
It's just too bad our Western leanings will come at your and my expense.